(I’m working at a popular sandwich chain during a busy dinner rush. Two men, one of which is much older than the other, approach the counter. The younger man orders two footlongs while the older one hangs back, so I figure they are for the both of them. After I finish, I attempt to move on to the next customer.)

Older Customer: “EXCUSE ME, are you just gonna f***in’ skip me?”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought your order was finished. What can I get for you?”

(I remain quiet and begin making the sandwiches. Note: a regular club sandwich is made with four slices turkey folded, fourslices roast beef folded, and two slices of ham laid flat. To save time, I usually take two slices of meat together and add them like that, as is the case here.)

Older Customer: “That’s not double meat.”

Me: “Yes it is, sir…”

(I explain the sandwich formula to him and show the amount of meat on the bread.)

Coworker: “As you can see, sir, this is the proper formula for a club. Why don’t we just make sure your sandwich has exactly double of that?”

(My coworker grabs a piece of deli paper and, piece by piece, disassembles the sandwich while loudly counting the slices and then places them on the paper. The older customer looks very embarrassed, while everyone in line who isn’t pissed off is snickering wildly—even his young companion.)

Older Customer: “OKAY! OKAY! I BELIEVE YOU! JUST MOVE ON!”

Coworker: “Are you sure? I could count it again if you aren’t.”

Older Customer:*mumbles* “D*** b****es!”

(On the plus side, he kept completely silent for the rest of the transaction with his head down.)